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Slick canvas leered beneath the screen, as when, six months ago,
I fell asleep worrying the heavy bag.
and as that pendulum swing caught life and animus like the twitch of a glove
turning and driving to my frightened elbows
the choke in my veins, my tongue shriveling in dust---
Then far-long, as my fingers danced, I knew again the catch of the spine.
   And my lips grinned.
                     I feel long teeth
                     curving talons. It purrs and crackles
                         rippling
                     throat tightens, thighs fire.
The letters on the screen, and I remember that cult-chorus,
of a man who knows the world is drowning.
                                                                  I saw drowning
                                                                  the cries are silent
                                             Just shoot the dog, you damn bitch.
Then I loosed wolves in me.
              I cry PoetryPoetryPoetry hold my hands to my ears
                     and run, trailing soot in the snow
---and I tore wolf flesh, starved, clawing the carcass
with my little knives.



Finit--
The rain washes.

It was an odd thing, painstaking, too broad for standard paper.
I never showed it.                It was voices frozen
                                             in their scuttling and howls,
big long sharp slick               swatted on sooty tin, and still.
stabbing toothed ice pick
oh, yes, YEH-hess, ooh hoo ooh      But wolves never howl vomit.
                                                         They never starve for hate.

                     Ah my enemy, you would know me now and fear.

I feel I am Scylla, and recoil from the serpents
in my palms. They don't scrub off...